Of the Depraved
by phollie
Summary: The boy can't help it; it's not his fault.  A portrait of Gilbert Nightray in 9 100-word drabbles. Retrace 65 spoilers.


Decided to give formal drabbles a shot. I would have done ten, but I ran out of steam and really wanted to get this up and posted, soooo..._/twiddles thumbs_

Telling a story in 100 words is about ten thousand times harder than I thought it would be. Just sayin'.

I own le nothing. Spoilers for Retrace 65 near the end.

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><p><strong>.of the depraved<strong>

/

[.touch]

Oz tells Gilbert that he smells of warm things – wispy curls of tobacco, tired leather worn over clean linens, black coffee and brown sugar edged with a musk all his own. Wriggling up close to him, Oz's face buries into the side of Gilbert's neck until he's impossibly close, close enough to fuse right into him and bind them together as one.

Gilbert has to make a conscious effort to keep his hands in his lap, safe from the tempting blossoms of Oz's shoulders, from sinking too deep and ruining _everything _as Oz hums his soft praises into his ear.

/

[.earth]

"And the earth will lay my body down," Gilbert reads quietly, "and return it to its rightful state – clean, wholesome, and untouched by man's empty passions." Flitting his gaze up at Break, he scoffs softly and closes the book, sliding it across the table as if afraid of being infected by it. "'Empty passions'," he grumbles, crossing his legs. "What a pretentious thing to say. No passion is empty if it's felt enough to be _called_ passion at all."

"That's all well and good in theory," Break croons with a hot, silken curl of a smile, "but what about _you_?"

/

[.friends]

Because that's what they are, isn't it? At least, that's what Oz has seemed to taken a liking to calling whatever he has with the very same chain that brings about his own peril. Christ, and he's even gotten _her_ latched onto the term, mumbling it in hushed, confused tones before smiling as if she's just discovered something grand and brilliant and…oh, she's _stupid._

It's a bitter word, an ugly word when given to anyone else besides Gilbert. That swell of panicked hysteria should make him ashamed, guilty – but after all, Gilbert's not the one _killing_ Oz, now is he?

/

[.oracle]

Rufus Barma sits in a puddle of red silk, every clean, elegant line of him draped in fineries that Gilbert would never dare touch, and there's a smile curled about his lips that leaves everything to imagination.

It's never safe to leave Gilbert to his imagination.

"Surely you must be wondering," Rufus says, long fingers stroking along the perimeter of his fan, "how it is that I came about all this knowledge, yes? Surely it must _baffle_ you."

The slow, sensual slide of his voice makes Gilbert shiver. "I…I prefer not knowing."

Rufus chuckles. "I knew you would say that."

/

[.sun]

Oz drinks in sunlight, breathes it in and lets it twirl and taper in his lungs before releasing it on a long, pleasant sigh. "You should keep your hair tied back like that." His voice is a syrupy drag of sleepy syllables, each one speaking of every bit of lassitude that forever clings to him like fog on a mirror. Leaning forward, his fingertips graze just behind Gilbert's earlobe to flick the blue ribbon. "I like it."

The softness of his eyes counters the hard thrash of Gilbert's pulse, and Gilbert briefly contemplates how long he could survive without breathing.

/

[.sick]

Elliot's body is little more than a heap of bloodied velour and limp limbs strewn in a sickening tangle along the marble floor. The room, half-bathed by the glow of candles that should have long gone out, reeks of death, of sacrifice, and if Gilbert could feel anything besides that acute sense of dread rising in his throat, he thinks he would be sick right here and now, right before Oz's unseeing – and at the same time all-seeing – eyes.

Days later, once the shock has settled into a numb wash of grief, Gilbert can still smell his brother's blood. Everywhere.

/

[.forgive]

"N-No more. Please."

But the wine is poured down onto him in heavier torrents, soaking into his hair and the thin guise of his chemise until it clings to his skin; such a depraved grip, much like how he clings to the last shred of innocence he can still hold claim to. It's still there, still drifting somewhere just above his head. All he has to do is reach up and grab it by that silver thread, and it'll be his again.

The wine drips from his lips, rich and red. He can't tell what's blood and what isn't anymore.

/

[.mortality]

"Cut it," Gilbert's breathing out, gripping Vincent's wrist to better angle the blade where he wants it – on his throat, right against that pale column of veins and nerves entwining just beneath his skin. Were he to sever them, he'd bleed out onto the bathroom floor in dizzy spells of red, but he wouldn't die, not one hundred times over.

Vincent's eyes, for once, are fearful – of Gilbert, of his brother that lost his nerve and replaced it with hate, of the man with the heart that won't stop beating, won't stop _hurting_.

"…What's the worst that could happen, Vincent?"

/

[.alone]

Gilbert searches for ghosts in the walls to cling onto when the world of the living isn't enough. When he's strung up high on delirium and delusion as he is right now, he swears he can hear them dripping from the faucet, flooding the bowl of the sink until they overflow and slither along the floor up to the foot of his bed. From there, they wrap their watery fingers around his throat and tell him he's beautiful, that's he useful, that he's _worth it._

They're going to flood this entire place, he thinks. They're going to suck him dry.


End file.
